


wishful thinking

by zeldalookslonely



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Getting Together, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23358709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldalookslonely/pseuds/zeldalookslonely
Summary: Aziraphale wants Crowley to have nice things.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 289





	wishful thinking

It only happens once before the failed Apocalypse. Crowley is dozing on the sofa after a night of drinking and ranting. He should be flushed and warm from the heat and the alcohol, but he’s pale; he’s pale: bone white and delicate and fragile. He shifts in his sleep and _shivers_ and Aziraphale blinks and suddenly Crowley is covered by a thick, fluffy blanket.

For a moment Aziraphale allows himself the reassuring thought that Crowley must have miracled the blanket in his sleep, but there’s only so much he can lie to himself: Crowley wouldn’t miracle himself a soft tartan blanket. He wouldn’t miracle himself a blanket at all; he wouldn’t allow himself such a comfort. Crowley isn’t one to indulge himself, is he? He doesn’t stay put, he doesn’t snuggle in and enjoy. He runs. He sleeps until he can bear his life again, or he throws himself into a new temptation, or he drinks until he can tell himself he was never uncomfortable in the first place.

Aziraphale snaps his fingers and the blanket is gone; Crowley looks fierce and small in its absence. Aziraphale feels smaller. 

He avoids Crowley for a decade or two after that. _Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what it means to lose yourself like that. Don’t think about– just get a handle on it. Control yourself._ Control yourself.

And he does.

…

“I’ve been cursed,” Crowley says. There’s a kitten clinging to the fabric of his shirt. A second kitten in his hands. A possible third kitten in the form of a mewling lump crawling up his pant leg.

“Surely your trousers are too tight to fit a kitten,” Aziraphale says. He taps his fingers nervously against his own trousers, then shoves his hand in his pocket.

“Not the point! I’ve been cursed! Cursed with these… things!”

“You like cats,” Aziraphale says mildly. 

“Cats! _Cats_ , mean old cats who sleep in sunbeams all day and hiss at strangers and mind their own business! Not these… infants!”

“They might be good for you. You seem lonely, since the Apocalypse.”

Crowley gives him a sharp look. “So people keep saying. Neighbors. Strangers on the street. Trying to talk to me, saying I look lonely. People who have never even looked my direction before, making annoying conversation! Now you too!” Crowley is talking faster and faster, voice rising in pitch, hands flailing about. The kitten in his hand mews pathetically. “It’s affecting you too. The curse has got you!”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale snaps. “Kittens and friendly humans do not a curse make. You’re being ridiculous.” His stomach lurches with the lie of it; he immediately wishes he could take the words back, but what explanation can he give?

Crowley turns without a word and stalks out of shop. A kitten Aziraphale hadn’t noticed before trails haphazardly behind until Crowley scoops it up and balances it on his shoulder. It is, without a doubt, the most charming scene Aziraphale has ever witnessed.

“Fuck,” Aziraphale says. “Fuck.”

…

Aziraphale knits. He selects a rich black wool yarn with the idea that he’ll knit Crowley a blanket, which will use up some of the celestial energy that is apparently drowning the dear boy in fuzzy kittens -- theoretically, hopefully, _please please please_. Knitting is not easy; he’s hardly a natural, but once he gets “the you tube” to play on his ancient mobile phone, he improves. Relatively.

Unfortunately, Knitting turns out to be slow work, and he hasn’t seen Crowley in four days and sixteen hours, so he packs up his supplies and treks to Crowley’s flat. He’ll check in, make sure everything is tickety-boo. Maybe Crowley will give him knitting advice. Maybe he can explain everything without making Crowley uncomfortable. Maybe Crowley will understand. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Crowley doesn’t answer the door.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale calls, to no response, so he brushes his knuckles against the door knob: a request. The lock clicks open. “Crowley?”

“Angel? In here, be careful.” He sounds resigned, and in a few steps Aziraphale can see why -- he’s trapped in the center of his living room by dense layers of teacups, knee-high, covering the floor.

Aziraphale swallows. “Crowley, I. What?”

“The curse,” Crowley says shortly.

“Crowley, I really don’t think it’s a curse.” He waves a hand to get rid of the teacups, and Crowley shouts a warning, but it’s too late. They disappear, then reappear. Doubled. Aziraphale presses himself back against the wall. “Oh. Oh, no.”

Crowley sighs, and one of the kittens pokes two tiny ears out from his jacket pocket, then claws down his leg to the floor. “You need to leave before it gets you too.”

“Crowley. I. It’s not a curse. It’s not--”

“You don’t know that!” Crowley shouts, and Aziraphale closes his eyes. Opens them up. Makes himself look at Crowley, who must read something in his face, because he drops to his knees with a _thunk_. Rubs his eyes with his palms and says in a small, cracked voice, “Are you… you cursed me?”

“It’s not a curse. I don’t think it’s a curse. Will you just-- can you drink the tea? I think if you-- I know it’s not fair, but if you just. Will you?”

“You want me to drink cursed tea?” He sounds broken. Crumbled.

Aziraphale feels wretched. “It’s not… I’m. I just wanted you to be comfortable. I lost control but I know I wouldn’t hurt you. I just. I wanted you to have nice things. Soft things. Like warm drinks and a pet and friends and. And.”

Crowley exhales heavily; looks Aziraphale in the eye. Picks up one of the teacups. Tips his head back to drain it in one swallow. Nothing happens, and he raises an eyebrow. Aziraphale narrows his focus to one cup and snaps his fingers. It disappears, and Aziraphale waits for a moment before sighing in relief. It’s gone.

All at once every teacup disappears and Crowley backs Aziraphale up against the wall, boxing him in, hands to either side of his head. His face is so close Aziraphale would barely have to move to press their lips together. To nudge Crowley’s cheek with his nose, to breath the same breathe, to give, to touch, to _touch_. Instead he closes his eyes. “I’ve made a bit of a mess of things,” he whispers, and hates it, hates himself for it, hates that he’d choke over a real apology, hates that he can’t manage it for Crowley, _Crowley_ of all people, Crowley who deserves it most. “Crowley.”

“What else?” Crowley asks, calm, too calm, too close. “What else did you want to give me?”

Oh. _Oh_. Aziraphale lets his hands flutter low, then high, from Crowley’s hips up to his neck. Thumbs to cheekbones. Winds one hand into his hair. “Crowley, love,” he says, because he has to be sure, can’t let this be another pile of unwanted teacups. “Do you…?”

Crowley kisses him, wet, breathless, dark, like an avalanche, open-mouthed already and maybe this was inevitable. Maybe Crowley feels something like a fraction of the longing Aziraphale has been fighting for so long. Maybe he doesn’t have to fight anymore. Maybe he can-- he _can_. So he kisses back, and Crowley _whimpers_ ; it’s the kind of sound he’s dreamed about, the kind of desire he keeps private out of desperation and self-preservation and here it is, out in the open, here, here, here. He hoists Crowley up, up, flips them around so Crowley is the one against the wall, Crowley, who grinds down against Aziraphale’s thigh and moans, Crowley, the skin and bones of him, the messy lines and angles, _I’d take you apart, I’d take you to pieces, I’d take everything_. Everything.

“I’ve never,” Crowley gasps suddenly, and Aziraphale slows, slows, holds him in place, waits: because he knows Crowley, unlike Aziraphale, _has_ done this before; he’s heard many wry and mocking stories from Crowley himself.

He kisses Crowley on the cheek. “Never…” he prompts.

“I mean, _I have_ , but never like this. Never like…” He trails off. Looks frustrated. “Never with feelings,” he says finally, red-face, avoiding eye contact. “Never with _you_ , and I need to know, before we... Is this…? Or?” He groans.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “even my _subconscious_ is obnoxiously in love with you.” Crowley’s eyes dart up to his, wide, but he doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t move, and Airaphale realizes he still has him pinned in place, which is becoming less and less appropriate. He sets Crowley down, hurriedly, embarrassed, backs away; of course that was too far, of course. “Not that I have any expectations in that sphere, my dear,” he says quickly, “and even if you were inclined that way I know I haven’t always… haven’t always been quick to show you--”

“Shut up, just shut up,” Crowley hisses, pushing Aziraphale back onto a wide sofa he’s pretty sure wasn’t there a second ago. “You _infuriating_ \-- you looked terrified. You still look.” He climbs into Aziraphale’s lap. Starts to work unbuttoning his shirt, hands trembling. Curls his fingers into fists over Aziraphale’s chest. “I thought you were going to take it back,” he says.

“Never,” Aziraphale says, _promises_. “Never, I’ll never-- I love you. I’m in love with you. I’m in love with you, Crowley. I want…”

Crowley blinks, waves a hand and they’re both naked, naked; Crowley is trembling all over, grinding against Aziraphale’s knee so subtly Aziraphale doubts he knows he’s doing it. “Tell me. What do you want? Anything.”

“I want to take care of you,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley clenches his eyes shut. Goes still.

“I don’t need to be taken care of,” he says.

“I know _that_ , love,” Aziraphale says gently. “I know exactly how little you need to survive. I know just how small you can make yourself. How unobtrusive. I know. I _know_.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whines. “Angel, I don’t. How do I…?”

“Can I touch you?” Aziraphale asks, rubbing a soothing circle over Crowley’s flat belly. “Can I touch your _cunt_?” he asks again, because he suspects Crowley would like to hear him say it, and he’s pleased when Crowley moans out loud.

“Yes. Yeah. Yes.”

Aziraphale lays back, long on the sofa, back against the back cushions; he takes Crowley with him, pulls Crowley’s back up to his chest, bodies pressed together. Kisses his neck, slow, breathes him in, then spreads Crowley’s legs wide, til one of his feet is planted on the floor and the other is hooked over Aziraphale’s ankles. “All right?”

“Yes, yes, just-- _yes_.”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Aziraphale says, breathes deep to calm his nerves, and slides his hand low, rakes through the thatch of wiry hair, drags one finger over the core of him, a shallow movement. Crowley gasps, thrusts his hips up; he’s wet, dripping. Beautiful. “Beautiful.”

“Inside, _please_ ,” Crowley says, _begging_ and it’s not right; Aziraphale doesn’t want him to have to beg, never, _never never never_ , so he eases two fingers inside him, curls them up, sets a swift pace, and Crowley sobs with it, a lovely sound, not least because it indicates Aziraphale is doing something right.

“Can I make you come?” Aziraphale asks, “Quick now, slow later, love, would that be okay? Is that all right?”

“Now,” Crowley says, a little more demanding which feels better, feels lovely; Aziraphale brushes his thumb over Crowley’s clit, feather-light, and that’s all it takes; Crowley convulses, clenches around Aziraphale’s fingers, and Aziraphale works him through it, slow, slow, until Crowley sighs. Relaxes. Tenses up again when Aziraphale tries to remove his fingers. “Don’t!” he says, then, “stay.”

“Of course, of course. I’m here. I’m inside you. I won’t leave.”

Crowley breathes, in and out, in and out, then starts moving again. Fucking himself on Aziraphale’s fingers; he twists his head to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, bashful but determined, and it hits Aziraphale that this is it, this is Crowley letting Aziraphale take care of him. Taking what he wants to give Aziraphale what he needs.

“My love,” Aziraphale says, overcome, “not too sensitive?”

“No,” Crowley grunts. “I’ve wanted, to keep going like this, to keep-- wasn’t about me though. So I never.” Aziraphale mouths at his neck, just grazing him with his teeth, and Crowley moans, says, “wouldn’t have been the same anyway. Wouldn’t have been… would it?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, hushed. “ _No_. I don’t think anything could ever be like this, no one could look like you look right now, could be so lovely, look at you, _look at you_.”

“Wanna come like this,” Crowley says, jerking his hips as Aziraphale rubs his clit a little harder, “ _please_ , yes, like this, then I want your cock. Will you? I want to come on your cock and then you’ll come inside me, mark me up from the inside, won’t you, won’t be able to deny it happened, I’ll always have it, can we do that?”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale says, but Crowley works one hand between them and presses against Aziraphale’s hard cock, and suddenly Aziraphale can’t ignore his own arousal any longer; he gasps and jerks his hips forward, grinds his fingers down on Crowley’s clit harder than he intended, too much, too fast; he opens his mouth to ask if he should stop but Crowley cries out, writhes on his fingers, lovely. Lovely. “Like that?”

“More, more!” 

So Aziraphale gives him more, more, gives him everything, works him up to a fierce, biting orgasm, whispering into his ear, “ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ I ever gave you reason to think I’d deny you, I’m sorry, I love you, my dear, my darling, beautiful, beautiful,” and it’s easy, easy, for once, to apologize, to say the words, to mean them.

“I love you,” Crowley says, “ _I love you_ ,” and Aziraphale is overwhelmed by it, paralyzed with it; he looks at Crowley who smirks at him, who pulls them both up, climbs back into his lap. Who seats himself on Aziraphale’s cock and moans like it’s everything he’s ever wanted.

Aziraphale makes an embarrassing gurgling noise, thrusts upward, but it’s awkward, he can’t seem to match Crowley’s rhythm, it feels too good, too big, everything is amplified, and he has to ask, can’t hold back, says, “Really? Do you really?”

“You’re an idiot,” Crowley says affectionately, so soft; he slows down, moves in to kiss Aziraphale gently, to stare into his eyes. To wrap his arms around his neck.

Aziraphale chokes up, closes his eyes. Lets everything build slow, at the base of his spine, Crowley’s hair in his hands, cheek to cheek, touching everywhere. Close, so close. Intertwined. “I didn’t know you’d want me like this,” Aziraphale says, trembling, unmasked. On display.

Crowley nuzzles into his neck. “Idiot,” he says again, and Aziraphale huffs a laugh. He thinks he probably is.

…

Aziraphale is working on his blanket when Crowley wakes up, and he tries not to smile too ridiculously wide at Crowley’s mussed hair, at the pale bruise over his collar bone. He’s certain he fails.

Crowley looks up at him with hooded, sleepy eyes, maybe a little uncertain, so Aziraphale snuggles in closer, and Crowley breathes out. Rests his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You don’t knit,” he says.

“Do so,” Aziraphale says, but reassesses after surveying his work so far. “A little.”

“But you never have before.”

“Well, I’ve never had sex before either,” Aziraphale says, “but here we are.” He pauses. Clicks his knitting needles together nervously. “It’s for you, the knitting. It’s supposed to be a blanket, eventually. But I could always make it a practice blanket, couldn’t I? I could make you another one when I improve. After all, I only started because I thought it would help with my little… problem.”

Crowley doesn’t respond and Aziraphale shifts a little to make eye contact. Crowley is staring at him, mouth open. Eyes wide. “I’ll make you a better one later,” Aziraphale confirms quickly.

“Aziraphale, it’s not that. I want the blanket. I... You haven’t had sex before?”

“I have not,” Aziraphale says, and decides to be flattered by Crowley’s obvious surprise. Clearly his wide base of theoretical knowledge was helpful. He preens a bit. “You couldn’t tell?”

“Welllll,” Crowley says, faux-seriously, before cracking a smile. Aziraphale huffs, elbows him lightly in the ribs, and Crowley gives an exaggerated dodge. “ _No_ angel, I couldn’t tell.”

“Does it bother you?” Aziraphale asks, because there’s a pensive look on Crowley’s face, even though he’s pretty sure it doesn’t; he knows Crowley doesn’t judge anyone over things like this. Aziraphale rubs his arm. Kisses his hand.

“’Course not,” Crowley says quietly. “I like it. Shouldn’t. Wouldn’t matter, if you had, you know? Love you no matter what you got up to, no matter who you were with. But I like it. Feels like you chose me.”

“I _choose_ you,” Aziraphale says fiercely. “Actively, always. I choose you, love.”

Crowley pulls Aziraphale into a tight hug, and the kittens scratch at the bedroom door and maybe Crowley will let him make tea for them both. Maybe he’ll fry up an egg, which Crowley has been known to enjoy every so often. Maybe Crowley will shiver and Aziraphale will be able to cover him with a blanket, maybe he’ll knit him a scarf as well. Maybe they can take care of one another, now. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as tumblr ficlets, now expanded.


End file.
